


Walls

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 12:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10217903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Ichabod comes to a realization about his partner, but there is one small issue they need to get past first.





	1. Chapter 1

“’Cause I love you…” Abbie Mills’ voice floats through the stillness of the archives. “Baby, baby, baby, I love you,” she continues, singing the background part, then presses on, “There ain't no doubt about it, baby, I love you,” singing absentmindedly as she slowly scans the shelves in front of her, searching for a particular volume.

Ichabod Crane looks up from the large sheaf of parchment over which he is standing. As Abbie sings and lightly sways to this song he knows to be by Miss Aretha Franklin, he realizes he’s been watching and listening to _her_ for the past several minutes instead of studying the ancient map in front of him.

He blinks, something niggling in the back of his brain, yet he continues to watch _her_ rather than returning his attention to his task. He’s definitely heard her sing before. Hundreds of times. He’s even sung with her on numerous occasions: in the tavern with the karaoke machine, in the car, that one night where they had a little too much to drink and he taught her the shanty he sang at the first karaoke night.

 _She put me to shame that night with her superior singing, even inebriated as she was. As we both were. She began_ harmonizing. _It was amazing._ He knows the sound of her voice as well as his own; better, in fact, and thinks her singing is the sound of angels taking flight.

_Honestly, Miss Mills is truly marvelous at everything she does. I have yet to witness a skill at which she does not excel. She is gifted musically. Not only is she remarkably intelligent, but is clever, witty, and has much more common sense than I. The patience of a saint, this I know from firsthand experience. An excellent cook._

He pauses again, thinking of the lasagna, fried chicken, pot roast, and mouth-watering steaks she has prepared for him, among other sumptuous dinners. _Not to mention the confections. Oh! the desserts… how General Washington would have swooned._ He smiles, remembering the notorious sweet tooth the general possessed. It was his biggest weakness and the main reason he needed his famous false teeth.

“If you feel you wanna kiss me, go right ahead, I don't mind. All you've got to do is snap your fingers and I'll come running, I ain't lying…”

He feels an ache in his chest at hearing her begin the second verse. He blinks again, even shaking his head slightly. _It is simply the song that is “stuck in her head”, as she says. But… why does it feel like an invitation? Why do I_ want _it to be an invitation?_

Just then, Abbie looks over her shoulder at him. “Okay there, Crane?” she asks, interrupting her song.

 _God's wounds, but she is beautiful. Why have I never taken the time to just… admire how exceedingly lovely she is?_ “Quite well, thank you, Lieutenant,” he answers. A lie. He is flummoxed. He clears his throat. “Have you found the tome for which you are searching?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it is on the next set of shelves. If I knew the volume for which you are searching, I would be able to assist you more ably,” he suggests.

“That’s just it. I don’t remember which one it is, but I’ll know it when I see it,” she says, moving to the next large bookcase. After a few seconds, she starts humming. Then singing again. “’Cause I love you…”

He feels stricken, his stomach floating unsteadily as though he has just stepped off of a cliff.

By the time Abbie reaches the end of the chorus, Ichabod is walking towards her as though pulled. Suddenly, like a jolt, he _knows._

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, baby, I love you.”

He quietly steps behind her, his heart pounding, his palms slightly sweaty. He wipes them on his trousers, then places his right hand on her waist.

To _his_ surprise, she only slightly jumps. She stops singing. “What are you doing?” her voice is small, nearly a whisper, as she feels the warmth radiating off of his body seep into her back. Her stomach wobbles at how very _close_ he is. The nature of their association often means they must be in close physical proximity, as they sometimes need to explore cramped quarters or narrow tunnels. Crane is fairly good at keeping his claustrophobia at bay, but Abbie is always keenly aware of his discomfort as evidenced by the occasional gripping of a hand or shoulder. Even above ground, in the open, they are generally connected at the hip, neither having any qualms about leaning in close over the other’s shoulder to examine a computer screen or page. Even the time Abbie had to sit on Ichabod’s lap while riding in Seamus Duncan’s pickup truck with Big Ash was met with a casual shrug on both their parts.

But this. This is different.

“I am simply...” Ichabod whispers his answer, trailing his left hand up her back to her right shoulder, where he gently sweeps her hair aside and nuzzles the side of her neck, just beneath her jaw. The caress is soft, his breath warming the side of her neck.

“Oh…” she breathes, her body going limp and heavy, but she keeps her feet under her. “Wait…” she attempts to gather her wits, straightening her posture again. “What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice wavering.

Both his hands are on her waist now, firm but gentle, and he is struck by how his large hands nearly span her tiny torso. “I am showing you what I am not brave enough to say, Abbie,” he murmurs, and she melts again as his lips softly graze her cheek. “Telling you my feelings for you run very deep…” he kisses the edge of her jaw, “…you are simply the most amazing person I have ever met…” he lightly nips the edge of her ear, causing her right side to erupt in gooseflesh, “…and it is my most fervent hope…” his lips brush her cheek again as he speaks, “…that you return my affection.”

She moves her head just slightly and finds his lips with hers, telling him her answer without words. A second later, she is turning in his arms, her fingers diving into his hair, dislodging his neatly-done queue. She moans in the back of her throat and opens her mouth immediately when she feels the tip of his tongue against her lips. Her hands clutch his head, his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase as he presses her against the shelves. Beside them, a book tumbles to the floor.

His fingers splay wide on her back, one hand moving up to gently support her head, not wishing her any discomfort as her neck is bent so far back to reach him. She feels so good in his arms, like she belongs there. Her lips are like the sweetest honey and he feels drugged by her taste, her feel, her very essence.

Her leg hooks around his hip even as his hands slide down her petite body. Their lips part for just a moment as he reaches down and lifts her, his strength surprising given his slender form, and she wraps her legs around his waist.

“Abbie...” he grunts, then returns his lips to hers.

She finally closes her fingers around the band holding his hair back, gently tugs it free, tossing it to the floor, then slides her fingers into his unbound hair, the silken waves cool against her suddenly-hot skin.

Ichabod presses Abbie against the bookshelves, using the large item to help support her slight weight. He can feel the heat of her against his stomach, and he groans. His kisses are hungry, with a surprising fire, and he unconsciously rocks his hips forward, pressing against her, though she is sitting too high to feel how she is affecting him physically.

“Oh...” she gasps, pulling away for a second, then diving back in.

Her soft exclamation snaps him back into clarity. He gently eases back, softly pecks her lips, then rests his forehead against hers. “We must stop, dearest Abbie,” he breathlessly says.

“We must?” she asks, but understands. He hasn't set her back down, so she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I... should not...” He sighs, exasperated. It is rare that he is at a loss for words. “I was not acting in a gentlemanly manner, and I apologize. I'm afraid I got, as they say, carried away.”

She giggles, but not unkindly, then kisses him. “Good Sir, if your advances were unwelcome, you most certainly would know,” she replies. “Remember, I took out Colonel Sutton...”

Ichabod remembers that particular part of the story. He was so proud of her. _Another thing at which she excels_. He chuckles, giving her a light squeeze. “Oh, beg pardon,” he says, realizing exactly _where_ he has just squeezed. His hands are still gripping her backside.

His apology only makes Abbie laugh harder. “You could put me down, you know.”

He nods, then gently sets her on her feet. His hands immediately clasp in front of him, covering his groin, hoping to hide the fact that his body hasn't finished calming itself.

If Abbie notices this, she tactfully says nothing. She also frowns.

“Lieutenant?” Ichabod asks, fearing that now, out of the circle of his embrace, she has changed her mind.

“Why?” It is a small question that asks so much. Especially when she looks up at him with her large, brown eyes that see into his soul.

“Because, as I said, you are wonderful. Perfect.” He pauses. “I am only sorry it took me this long to truly see it.”

“I’m not perfect… I have… walls.”

He nearly snorts a laugh, but, like her earlier giggle, it is not unkind or derisive. “I am well aware, and yet my opinion remains unchanged.” He steps closer again. “For I am standing on the top of these walls, looking down into your heart, patiently awaiting an invitation to join you on the other side.” He reaches up and caresses her cheek.

“Crane...” she breathes his name, her voice quiet. She leans back against the bookshelves and looks up at him. “Ichabod. You’ve been standing on the top of those walls for a long time,” she admits. “Only now, you’ve got a ladder in your hand.” She sighs. “Or a wrecking ball poised behind you, ready to strike.”

He leans down and kisses her, sweetly this time. “You need only say the word, Miss Mills,” he murmurs, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from hers.

She closes her eyes and nods, completely understanding his meaning.

A sound at the secret entrance breaks the spell. “Hey, guys, I found that... what's going on?” Jenny asks, stopping and staring at the scene in front of her. She's used to how close her sister and Crane are, but something seems different.

“I... I was just looking for a book. I mean, Crane was helping me find a book,” Abbie quickly says as Ichabod straightens his posture and takes a step back.

“...Rrrright...” Jenny drawls, nodding slowly, her eyes skeptical. “Did you find this 'book'?”

The book that fell – that they caused to fall – catches Abbie's eye, and she bends to pick it up. “Huh. This is actually the one I'm looking for,” she says, huffing a small laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

It only took one week. (It only took one day for Jenny to figure out what was different.) One week of small, affectionate gestures, stolen kisses, and increasingly-longer goodbyes until one night, she just decided to stay.

“Abbie, what...” Ichabod says, confused as he sees her opening her car door instead of leaning over to kiss him goodbye.

She steps out of the car and waits for him to catch up. “I thought I might stay,” she quietly says. “If... if that's all right with you.”

He blinks. “Of course it is,” he answers, taking her hand in his and leading her to the cabin, wondering what, exactly, she means by “stay”.

They are both tired. The week has been filled with activity, but they finally put things to rest very early this morning, crashed for a few hours, then returned to the police station, where Abbie filled out reports at her desk (she had to laud herself at how good she is getting at finding “logical” explanations for all the weird crap with which they have to deal) and Ichabod logged the _real_ events on the laptop down in the Archives, gradually learning to type with more than two fingers.

Abbie flops on the couch with a sigh. It's not terribly late, but it feels that way.

“Tea?” Ichabod offers. “We could order some dinner, if you are hungry.”

“Not really hungry, but I’ll take some tea, if you have decaf. Caffeine is the last thing I want right now,” she says, shrugging out of her jacket.

He disappears for a moment, then returns with two boxes in his hands. “Citrus green tea or black cherry berry?” he asks.

“Citrus. That black cherry stuff tastes like hot Kool-aid,” she answers. She leans forward and begins removing her boots.

“Only because you put so much blasted sugar in it,” he replies with a smile.

Abbie sighs. She realizes she doesn't want tea. “Crane?”

“Yes, Treasure?” he turns to face her.

“I don't really want any tea,” she says. “Sorry, I just realized.”

“No need to apologize,” he answers with a smile. “Surely you will not begrudge me—”

“Knock yourself out,” she says, waving a hand. “I'm just going to chill a minute. Take off my boots maybe.”

He nods. “Please do make yourself comfortable.” Then he returns to his task, putting away one mug.

Abbie is anxiously gnawing at her lower lip when he joins her on the couch. She knows what she wants to say, but she's afraid. _You've faced any number of demons, Abbie. You survived a day in 1781. You survived your own damn_ childhood _, so why are you scared now?_

_You know why._

“Abbie?” Ichabod asks, drawing her from her thoughts. He's taken to addressing her by her first name, but generally only when they are alone. He sets his mug – Caroline's old mug, kept for sentimental reasons – on the table and takes her hand in between his. “Something is on your mind. I can see it.”

She exhales, releasing her lower lip. His eyes flicker there for a moment, pupils unconsciously dilating, but he quickly focuses his attention back to her eyes. “Can't hide anything from you, can I?” she smiles weakly. “It's nothing bad,” she quickly adds, seeing the fear slowly edging into his expression.

He lifts her hand and kisses it. “Please, Abbie, you know you can always share what is on your mind.”

She's been going over what she wants to say all day, in various ways, from long speeches à la Crane to wordlessly jumping him and tearing his clothes off. In the end, she just blurts it out.

“I love you.”

He smiles. “I love you, too, Abbie,” he answers. That's all. He doesn't say, “That's all it was?” or “You were all worked up over _that_?” He knows how much it took for her to say the words, to acknowledge and _allow_ herself to open her heart to him. To _him._ The importance of this is not lost on Ichabod Crane at all.

She blinks a few times, looking down. She slowly raises her eyes to his face again and asks, “Which would you prefer: the ladder or the wrecking ball?”

He ponders his answer carefully, even taking a moment to sip his tea. “I do not think the choice is mine to make, my love. They are your walls, and I will not circle you like Joshua, sounding the trumpets until they crumble.”

She smiles and looks down once more. “I know. You've been wonderful. Probably more patient than I would have been able to be if the situation was reversed, to be honest.”

“It has only been a week since I made my declaration,” Ichabod says as he scoots closer to her. “You forget, I come from a time where courtship involved little more than patiently waiting.” He brushes his lips across her knuckles. “You have not yet made your choice, Abbie,” he softly reminds her, kissing her hand again. This time, he turns it and kisses her palm, sending a jolt of pleasure through her.

“Choice?” Abbie asks, growing warm and distracted. _He is only kissing your hand and you’re losing your composure. Good Lord._ “Oh, um…” He kisses the inside of her wrist, over her pulse point, then moves up to the inside of her elbow. “Looks like the ladder it is,” she whispers, watching with fascination as he slowly moves towards her lips, stopping at her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck, and her jaw before pausing once more.

“Oh, good. That way will be much more enjoyable,” he rumbles, then captures her lips with his, kissing her with a slow decadence that makes Abbie grateful she’s sitting down.

She winds her arms up around his neck, pulling him closer. His hair is unbound, so she has unfettered access and threads one hand into his soft waves.

The kiss turns hungrier, more urgent, and he pulls her onto his lap, his broad hands splaying across her back. He groans low in his throat, and she feels it more than hears it. She responds by pressing herself closer still, her need for this man growing with each passing moment.

She slips a hand into the open vee in the front of his shirt, her fingertips ghosting over the large scar there. One of his hands slides down and his fingers feel the softness of her skin beneath the hem of her shirt, which has ridden up a bit. He craves more, sliding his hand under the back of her shirt as he begins to kiss her neck.

“Oh...” she breathes, her head falling back.

Just as she is about to move to straddle him, he pulls away. “Abbie,” he gasps, “is this leading where I suspect it may be?” His hand is still on her back; hers is still on his chest.

“Do you want it to?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

The action draws his eyes to her lips, and he kisses her again, unable to resist. “Very much,” he honestly answers. He knows better than to lay it all on her. To return with a weak, “Only if you want to,” or “Do _you_ want it to?” would not be met favorably. _My Abbie appreciates directness._

“Good,” she answers, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“Not here,” he manages between kisses. “Not like this.” He cups her face with his hands. “Abbie, my love,” he says, “I have not yet fully descended the ladder.”

She laughs in spite of herself and says, “Oh, you have. Trust me, you have.” She moves to continue kissing him.

Ichabod evades her lips and, with very little effort, stands with her cradled in his arms. “This must be done properly,” he gently chides, striding to the bedroom.

Abbie sighs, knowing there is no point in arguing, but secretly loving this romantic side of him. Loving that he thinks she is worthy of the effort. She smiles and leans her head against his shoulder. Then, she moves her head, reaching forward with it to press her lips against his neck. He smells of his Dove for Men bodywash (which she picked out), his wool coat (which has a scent all its own), and his own natural scent (which is quite nice by itself). She nuzzles his neck, then kisses it again.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, kicking the door closed before gently setting her on the bed. He pulls his feet from his boots, sets them neatly side by side against the wall, yanks his socks off, then stretches out beside her on the bed, his hand hovering over her stomach for just a moment before settling down on it, his large hand spanning her small body.

His thumb idly caresses her stomach for a moment. “Abbie,” he says, his face serious. “Before we go any further, I believe we must first discuss... protection against—”

She gently lays her fingers on his lips. “I'm covered. I mean I won't get pregnant.” She pauses a minute. “Wait, you don't have any weird 18th century diseases or anything, do you? I know about camp followers and stuff, so...”

He catches her fingers in his hand before she drops them and kisses their tips. “I am, as they say, 'clean.' Katrina was not my first, I will admit, but I never indulged in casual female companionship, and was faithful to her during our marriage,” he answers.

Abbie can tell he is loath to talk about his late wife right now, but understands the importance of this information. She redirects a bit, raising a saucy eyebrow. “Not your first? Well, well, _that_ is a story I simply must hear,” she says, winding the ties of his shirt around her finger. “Later.” She tugs the strings and he obligingly leans down to accept her kiss.

Ichabod leans over her, pressing her back into the mattress and pillows, and in moments, they are lost in one another again.

He begins kissing down her neck, and she purrs, tilting her head back for him. “Right there,” she whispers when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. She doesn't notice that his hand has worked its way beneath her shirt until it closes over her breast. “Mmm...” Her back arches, pushing against his hand.

He moves off of her, helps her up, and pulls her shirt up. Together, they pull the gray t-shirt over her head and he tosses it to the floor. His eyes quickly scan her mostly-bared torso, then he dives back in, hands boldly exploring.

It quickly grows heated, and soon she starts tugging at his shirt. He whips it over his head and it joins hers on the floor. “I had planned to slowly undress you, kissing each inch of skin as it is revealed, but... unless you object, I think it will have to w— dear God...”

She derails his train of thought by removing her bra and dropping it to the floor. She lies back on the bed, trails her fingers down her torso, then pops the button on her jeans.

“Temptress,” he growls. His eyebrow twitches upward, then he quickly opens and drops his own trousers before moving closer to pull her snug-fitting jeans down off of her shapely legs. Her scant panties give him a moment's pause. “Do you always wear such garments beneath your clothes?” he asks, eyes wide. He reaches out with a single finger and traces the lace edge at her hip.

She smiles, bites her lower lip, and nods. “My little secret,” she says. “I like a little something feminine underneath the cop exterior. And...” She lifts her leg in the air, reaches up and pulls her sock off, then repeats it with the other leg. She places her foot in the center of his chest. “Pink painted toenails as well.”

He looks down at her delicate foot on his chest. He takes it between his hands. It is small and slender, but strong, and he presses his thumbs against her sole, massaging it. “And here I thought I knew everything there is to know about you,” he says.

“Almost,” she replies, enticingly licking her lips. “Now, what was that you were saying about changing your plans for me tonight?”

He lifts her foot, kisses, then releases it. “Mmm, yes,” he says, his voice low. He stands, removes his boxer briefs, and returns to the bed, a smug look on his face brought on by Abbie's openly appreciative stare.

“Damn, Crane,” she says, “now I know where all that food you eat goes.”

She expects him to make some scandalized exclamation, but instead, he replies with a knowing chuckle as he lowers himself over her, one hand skimming her skin from her neck to her waist as it makes its way to remove the piece of black lace still shielding the last part of her from his view.

He kisses her deeply, pouring everything he has into it, his tongue massaging hers as he slips his hand into her panties.

Abbie moans and angles her hips into his hand, encouraging him. “Oh...” She moves her hand and pulls the undergarment down. Ichabod finishes removing them, sliding them off and dropping them to the floor with the rest.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against her skin. “Divine.” He kisses her breasts, working his way to one of her nipples, already stiff and waiting for his attention. “Abbie, you are a goddess...” He closes his mouth over one, swirling his tongue around the hardened nub.

Her hands roam where they can reach, sliding through his hair, over his shoulders, his back, his chest. She reaches down as far as she can, but cannot quite reach his erect manhood. Her fingers brush the tip of it, and he shudders.

“Oh...” he grunts, shifting his hips to allow her to reach. “God's wounds...” he exhales as her strong fingers wrap around his shaft. His head drops against her chest momentarily, then he resumes, moving his attention to her other breast.

“Mmm,” she hums pleasurably, stroking him as he returns his hand between her legs, where he slides a single finger into her folds, then inside her. “Oh...” He adds a second finger and circles his thumb around the small bundle of nerves at the front. “ _Oh_...”

She is slickly wet and pushing her hips against his hand, moving her own on him in time with his motions. “Abbie... oh, God, please...” he rasps, moving out of her reach again. “I want to be able to last for you,” he says.

“Now, Ichabod,” she says, her hands on his sides, attempting to pull him over her.

He doesn't need to be told twice, immediately settling between her parted thighs. He takes another moment just to gaze down at her. “I love you,” he whispers, lowering himself to kiss her. “All of me now belongs to you. I am yours, wholly.”

“I’m yours too, Ichabod. Completely,” she answers, running her hands up his chest to his cheeks as he continues to kiss her. “I love you with everything that I have and everything that I am…” Her voice is a whisper caressing his skin.

He lifts up again, just a little. “Open your eyes, Abbie,” he murmurs.

She opens her eyes and looks up at him, her large, dark brown ones fixed on his mottled blue ones as she reaches down to guide him into place.

Ichabod thrusts his hips forward, his eyes locked onto hers as he enters her, watching her eyes, her face as they begin moving together.

Abbie’s eyes want to flutter and close, but she holds his gaze until he breaks, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head onto her shoulder. “Oh… Abbie…” he groans, and suddenly he is all fluid motion, intense and worshipful at the same time. His hips snap into her again and again, his hands caress her skin until it tingles, and his lips drop sweet, hot, wet kisses everywhere he can reach.

“Oh, my God...” she breathes, her hands gripping his shoulders, his back, roaming down to his backside. She squeezes a surprisingly decent handful and hitches her knees higher to allow him to go deeper. He groans again.

“Abbie, I... oh...” he grunts, afraid he's going to finish before she reaches completion, but his fractured apology is interrupted by her cries of pleasure.

“Mmm... oh... yes... rightthere... _oh_...” Each thrust brings forth a sound from her throat, sounds that are like music to Ichabod's ears. Finally, her fingers dig into his shoulders and she tosses her head back, crying out, “Ah! Ichab... mmm...”

He lets go, thrusting twice more before tumbling after her with a low growl, his face buried in her neck. “Oh, heavens...” he finally sighs, his body relaxing over her. “Oh.” He remembers where he is and slides off of her, then pulls her against his side.

Abbie curls around Ichabod with a contented hum, her leg thrown over his, her arm across his chest. “At the risk of sounding cliché, that was amazing,” she says.

“Indeed,” he agrees. “ _You_ are amazing, Abbie.”

“You're pretty amazing, too,” she replies. “I... I had no idea...”

“No idea I would live up to modern standards in lovemaking?” he asks, looking down at her in that sideways manner he likes to employ, just using his eyes but not moving his head.

“Something like that,” she admits.

“In my day – my _former_ day – lovemaking was considered an art.”

“Is that so?” she asks, smirking playfully up at him.

“It is,” he answers with a decisive nod.

“I suppose you kind of had to be good at it, given the rules of the time. I know there was a lot of stuff that was illegal back then. Stuff that's considered pretty commonplace today.”

“Yes, and I am very much looking forward to exploring some of those things with you.” After a moment, he adds, “And just because some ‘stuff’ was technically illegal does not mean _some_ people did not indulge. As an officer of the law, it may be a concept with which you are familiar.”

She laughs, turning her head and kissing his chest. “Ooo, sounds like you were one of those ‘ _some_ people’,” she muses. “Can’t wait.” She looks up at him again. “What was it you said forever ago? 'Imagine the delinquency we could perpetrate if we put our minds to it.' Something like that?”

“Mmm, indeed,” he confirms, his long fingers skimming up and down her side. “It seems my mind may have been subconsciously thinking of indulging in baser things even then.”

“We call that 'having your mind in the gutter',” she explains, lightly tracing the ridge of his scar. “It may be a concept with which I am familiar,” she adds, echoing his previous statement.

He laughs, squeezing her. “Oh, I do love this,” he declares. “Being with you this way. This intimacy with you is as effortless as putting one foot in front of the other. No. It is as easy as drawing breath.”

She happily sighs, trying to move closer to him, though she is already flush against his side. “It is, isn’t it?” He merely hums a response. “I think I like having you on this side of my walls.”

“I think I like being here,” he replies.

She shivers a little, and he reaches down for the tangled blanket at their feet, lifting it over them. “Better?” he asks, and she nods.

They are quiet for a few minutes, and Abbie grows so still Ichabod wonders if she’s drifted.

Then, she speaks. “You know... last week, in the Archives?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Of course I do,” he answers.

“If you hadn't stopped, I would have been down,” she admits.

“By 'down' you mean 'amenable to'...” he replies, making certain he understood her slang.

She nods. “Right there, against the bookshelves.”

He makes a low groan, but quickly regains his composure. “I do not believe you would have, Miss Mills,” he says.

“Oh, you think you know me better than I do?” she challenges, grinning.

“I think we both know the answer to that question,” he counters, kissing her forehead. “I am simply saying I am well aware you were... physically willing. I was, too. But, had I pressed on, you still would have stopped us before things went too far.”

She pauses for a long moment before answering. “Probably. Yeah.”

“You need the feeling behind the act to be true,” he continues. “As do I. And while the true feeling was already there, you had yet to allow yourself to see it. Therefore...”  
“Therefore... I wouldn't been able to go through with it,” she concedes. “I didn’t used to be that way,” she admits.

“I am not concerned with the checkered nature of your past, Miss Mills,” he answers. “I am only interested in it in regards to how it has shaped the woman you are today.”

“Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot. And for what it’s worth, I am clean, too. I didn’t say before, but during my… misspent youth, I was at least smart enough to use protec—”

“I know you would have said, if there had been anything to tell,” he confirms, kissing her forehead. “I was not concerned.”

Abbie lifts up and leans over him, kissing him properly. “I’m hungry,” she murmurs against his lips.

“Mmm, I believe I may be ready for another—”

“No, I mean for _food_ ,” she answers, collapsing across his chest, laughing. “We can follow your train of thought after we get some pizza or something.” She sighs. “I should probably let Jenny know I won’t be home, too…” She slips away from him and out of the bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor.

“I will order our food; you contact Miss Jenny,” he says, reaching down to the floor for his discarded trousers and his smartphone stored in a pocket. “I hope the Domino restaurant is to your liking. It is the only establishment that will deliver pizza out here.”

“That’s fine,” she says as her head emerges from the top of his shirt. “I look like I’m wearing a circus tent,” she adds, looking down at herself.

“You look quite ravishing, I assure you,” he says, staring. As he looks down at his phone, Ichabod says, “I believe I may request you leave that garment on when I take you against that wall,” he nods towards one of the walls, “after dinner.”

His words stop Abbie in her tracks, momentarily speechless. “Uhhhokay,” she finally, breathlessly manages. Still in slight shock, she goes out to the living room to get her phone out of her jacket. “I don’t hear any ordering,” she calls into the bedroom as she texts Jenny. _Staying at the cabin tonight._ She doesn’t even want to think of with what kind of saucy remark her sister will reply.

“I have their app,” he answers, looking quite pleased with himself as she walks back into the bedroom.

“Look at you, Mister ‘I Have Their App’,” she smiles. “Be right back.” She heads to the bathroom, closing the door part way. “I want some of those bread things, too,” she calls.

“Of course,” he answers, adding it to their order. As he completes the transaction, he hears singing.

“There ain’t no doubt about it, baby, I love you…” Her voice floats out from the bathroom, and he smiles when he recognizes the tune. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, baby, I love you.”

_This time I know she is singing it for me._


End file.
